by K. J. Parker
She shrugged. “And the war?” she said.
“A mistake,” he replied. “A very big, bad, stupid mistake. I thought it’d make the Republic leave us alone, but it had the exact opposite effect. Silly me.”
The frown was back. “That seems rather unlikely,” she said. “We’ve been studying your career, and the major decisions you’ve taken since you became duke. Before your intervention at Civitas Eremiae, your political judgment was flawless. I find it hard to believe that such a wise and resourceful man as yourself would have done something so rash and dangerous without a very good reason.”
“There you go,” Valens said with a grin (which pulled on the stitches and squeezed out a large drop of blood). “It just goes to show, nobody’s perfect. There are times when I surprise myself.”
She clicked her tongue. “I gather you’re not prepared to answer that question,” she said.
“No.”
“I see.” Her voice was cold; polite anger. “Obviously you’re entirely at liberty to keep secrets from me, but I trust you understand the nature of the relationship you’re proposing to enter into with my family. A marriage alliance is a very serious business, as far as we’re concerned.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Valens said gravely. “And you don’t need to remind me what a serious business this all is.” He sucked the blood and spit into the back of his mouth and spat it out onto the grass, then wiped his mouth gingerly on the back of his hand. “Well, this has been quite delightful, but I think we ought to be getting back to the others, or they’ll think we’ve eloped.”
As soon as he’d handed her back to her uncles (the bald man wasn’t there; off discussing the minutiae of the contract with Carausius, presumably), he hurried back to his tower room and threw up violently into the washbasin. He felt better for it, but not much. That set his lip bleeding again, which didn’t help. He sat down at his desk, staring out of the window, then drew a sheet of paper toward him, dipped a pen in ink and started to write.
Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.
This is stupid. My whole life has gone septic; everything hurts at the slightest pressure.
Isn’t love supposed to be the most wonderful thing that can happen to you? I don’t think so. I think it’s a nasty, miserable thing that brings out the worst in people; if you don’t believe me, ask Orsea how he got all those cuts and bruises.
Losing you to Orsea all those years ago was bad enough. Now, apparently, I’ve got to lose myself as well. I’ve got no choice: we need the alliance if we’re going to stand any sort of chance of scaring off the Mezentines; otherwise we’re all dead. Have you met her? No, I don’t suppose you have. She’s inhuman. She might as well be one of Ziani Vaatzes’ mechanical statues. Her loathsome family have taken her apart and made her into an artifact. I’d be desperately sorry for her if I thought she could still feel anything. Anyway, that’s what I’ve got to marry. Count yourself lucky; you got an idiot who goes around wrecking everything he touches and then tearing himself to bits out of guilt. I’m getting a machine. What the hell did either of us ever do to deserve this?
When my father died, I knew my life was over too. I realized I could never be myself again. To begin with, I tried to be him, but I couldn’t do it. Strange how sometimes you only get to know someone once they’re not there anymore. I couldn’t be him because I can’t bring myself to be deliberately stupid. He was a stupid man. Instead, I became what he should have been. The best joke about me is that everything I hate doing I do really well. At least I could be proud of what I’d done for this country. I kept the peace, nobody was starving, people could leave their houses and families in the morning and be fairly sure they’d still be there when they came back at night. Then Orsea started his war, you were in danger and I threw it all away.
I have to have something to live for. It used to be your letters. Now you don’t write to me anymore, and I’m going to be married to that thing. I’ve been thinking about my options. I thought about getting up very early one morning, taking a horse from the stable and riding until I reached somewhere nobody’s ever heard of me. I wish it was that simple.
I can’t do it, Veatriz. My father used to say, there’s no such word as can’t. If you can’t do it, all it means is you aren’t trying hard enough. That used to make me so angry — quiet, speechless-with-resentment anger — that I’d find a way to do any damn thing, just so as not to give him the satisfaction of being disappointed in me — and then he’d nod and say, told you so, I knew you could do it if you just applied yourself. I know that deep down he believed I wasn’t up to the job of running this country. I showed him, didn’t I? But that doesn’t work anymore. I can’t make myself do what I’ve got to do just so I can score points off my stupid, dead father. Maybe he was right all along. Take away the hate I used to feel for him, and what’ve I got left?
I think love and hate are really the same thing. They’re what you feel when someone matters more to you than anything else; more than yourself, even. I know you can love someone and hate them at the same time. My father was always the most important person in my life. I loved him and hated him, and there wasn’t room for anybody or anything else. Then he cheated by dying. He left before I could get the better of him, and I’ve been trapped by his death ever since. I think what’s shaped my life is the fact that I lost you and him so close together. Now I think about it, I realize I’m still the seventeen-year-old boy whose father died unexpectedly. I’m pinned to that moment, like a man whose horse has fallen on him.
Well, that’s me about finished. For the first time since he died I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do. I shall be very grateful indeed for any suggestions.
He put the pen back in the inkwell, knowing that if he started to read what he’d just written, he’d tear it up and burn the pieces. Instead, he folded the paper up small into a packet, melted wax and sealed it, tucked it up his sleeve and left the room.
It took him a long time to find the person he needed: a woman in a red dress, who curtseyed very politely, offered him some mead spiced with cinnamon and pepper (he refused) and asked him to sit down.
“It’s been quite a while since you needed me,” she said. “I was beginning to think —”
“Please,” he interrupted, “don’t waste my time or try my patience. You’re to deliver this to her personally when she’s alone. I suggest you do exactly as I say, because if you don’t I’ll have you killed. You know me well enough to realize I don’t make empty threats.”
She blinked. “I see,” she said. “Can I refuse?”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
“Very well then.” She took a deep breath, and smiled. “Can we talk about money now, please?”
“A hundred silver thalers when you come back and tell me you’ve delivered it,” Valens said. “All right?”
She thought about that for a moment. “That’ll be fine,” she said. “Also, I’d quite like a border pass, open, no dates, and there’s a silly misunderstanding about an excise license which I’d like sorted out, if that’s no trouble.”
Valens sighed. “It’s a point of honor with you people, isn’t it? Taking a mile.”
She laughed. “My mother told me, never accept anything you’re offered, always insist on one little thing more. Of course, I’m in no position to bargain.”
“Deal,” Valens said. “If you can get it done today, there’ll be an extra fifty thalers.”
“So sorry.” She shook her head. “Can’t be done. Not even for fifty thalers. I have to apply to the senior lady-in-waiting for an appointment. A bribe will get me one, but she always makes me wait a full day. If I insist on seeing the Duchess today, it’d look suspicious, the lady-in-waiting will get frightened and tell Duke Orsea, and — well, I don’t need to tell you what that’d lead to.”
Valens frowned. “Double the bribe,” he suggested. “I’ll pay.”
“That’d just make things worse,” she replied sadly.
“There’s a very strict protocol about bribing court officers. If you mess about with it, there’ll be trouble. And please don’t tell me how to conduct my business. I happen to be very good at it.”
Valens held up his hands. “Heaven forbid,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll see myself out.”
After leaving her he walked down through the town to the river. People stopped and stared but nobody spoke to him or came near him. It was well known in Civitas Vadanis that when the Duke came into town on his own, without guards or secretaries, he wanted to be left alone. It was, of course, a tribute to the way he ran his country that he could walk about the city on his own whenever he wanted to. Like all the best privileges, of course, it had to be used sparingly.
He stopped at a saddler’s stall down by the west gate; a rather fine set of jesses and a hood, in dark tan leather, embossed with ivy leaves. A nice, considerate present for his wife-to-be, whose name he couldn’t pronounce even if he could remember it. The stallholder noticed him looking at them and moved across.
“How much?” he asked.
“One thaler the set,” the stallholder replied. “Genuine Mezentine.”
That was a lie, of course; about the only thing the Mezentines didn’t make was falconry accessories. “You mean Cure Doce,” Valens said.
“All right, genuine Cure Doce. You want them, or what?”
Valens nodded, looked round for someone who wasn’t there. He frowned, and felt in his pockets, which were, of course, empty.
“No money,” he said.
The stallholder looked at him. “Is that right?”
“It’s all right,” Valens said. “Hold on to them for me, I’ll send someone.”
“Will you now?”
A little spurt of anger fired in Valens’ mind. “You don’t know who I am.”
The corners of the stallholder’s mouth tightened a little. “That’s very true, I don’t.”
“Forget it.” Valens walked away. He could feel the stallholder’s eyes on the back of his head. Of course, in a few weeks that man would be out of business for good, on the decision of his duke, who he hadn’t even recognized. There was something wrong with the way the world was run, Valens thought. He had half a mind to write to somebody about it.
Four stalls down from the saddler there was a cutler. As Valens passed, the man looked up and saw him; his eyes seemed to double in size and his mouth dropped open. He gave the boy standing next to him a vicious nudge in the ribs, and pointed with his chin. The boy grunted and carried on polishing something.
Oh well, Valens thought. “Good morning,” he said.
The cutler seemed to flicker, like a candle-flame in a draft. “Your majesty,” he said. “Yes, what beautiful weather, for the time of year.”
Depends on your idea of beauty, Valens thought. Nothing on the man’s stall had caught his eye, but he was snared now, as though he’d put his foot in a wire. He stepped up to the cutler’s table and looked round for something to admire.
There was a hanger; a plain thing, two feet of curved blade, lightly and crudely fullered, with a brass knuckle-bow and backstrap and a stagshorn grip. Valens picked it up, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and flexed the blade. It felt adequate.
“Nice piece,” he exaggerated.
“Thank you,” the cutler said. “Genuine Mezentine, of course. You can see the armory mark there on the ricasso.”
Sure enough, someone had scratched a little animal on the squared-off section just below the hilt. Unfortunately, the Mezentine stamp was a lion, and the scratched mark was quite definitely a cow. “You’re right,” Valens said, “so it is.” He sighed. It was good, sturdy, munitions-grade stuff, functional enough to cut briars with. One of the assistant huntsmen would be pleased to have it.
“How much will you take for it?” he asked.
The cutler swelled like a bullfrog. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” he said. “Please, take it. As a mark of …”
He didn’t seem able to make up his mind what it was a mark of, but the general idea was clear enough. “Don’t be silly, man,”Valens said, “you’re a businessman, not the poor relief.” He estimated how much it was really worth, then doubled it. “Two thalers.”
“No, really.” The man was close to tears. “I’d be honored if you’d take it.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “My eldest son was at Cynosoura,” he said. “It’d be for him.”
“Right,” Valens said, trying to remember what the hell had happened at Cynosoura. “Well, in that case, I’ll be pleased to have it. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” the cutler said. “There’s a scabbard with it, of course.” He looked round; there were no scabbards of any kind to be seen anywhere. “Thraso, you idiot, where’s the scabbard for this hanger, it was here just now …” He nudged the boy again, who scowled at Valens and crawled under the table. “I’m really sorry about this,” the cutler said, “it’s my son, he moves things when my back’s turned, and I never know — ah, here we are.” He pulled a sad-looking scabbard out of a wooden box by his feet; softwood with thin black leather pasted on, by the look of it. “I’ll just find some silk to wrap it in, please bear with me a moment.”
“That’s fine, really,” Valens said, “please don’t bother.” He smiled as best he could. “I only live just up the hill there, so I haven’t got far to go.”
The cutler stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, as though that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard in his life. “Of course, that’s right,” he said, and slid the hanger into the scabbard. It stuck, about halfway down, and had to be taken out and put back in again. Valens managed not to notice. “There you are, then, your majesty, and I hope it brings you all the good luck in the world. Thank you,” he added, just in case there was still any doubt about the matter.
“Thank you,” Valens replied, and fled.
All the good luck in the world, he thought, as he walked back up the hill. A fine example of the lesser irony there; because of who he was, he couldn’t buy what he wanted but he was obliged to accept a free gift he had no real use for. (That made him think about Veatriz and the other girl, the one whose name escaped him.) He carried the hanger low at his left side, hoping nobody would see him with it.
“Where did you get to?” Carausius demanded, pouncing on him as he crossed the courtyard in front of the Great Hall. “You were supposed to be meeting the uncles to talk about the marriage settlement.”
Valens frowned. Not in the mood. “You covered for me.”
“Yes, of course, but that’s not the point. I could tell they weren’t happy.”
Valens stopped. “It’s obvious, surely. I’m a young man of great sensibility, very much in love. The last thing I want to talk about is crass financial settlements. Right?”
Carausius sighed audibly. “So you went shopping instead.”
“What? Oh, this.” He glanced down at the object in his left hand, as though wondering how it had got there. “That reminds me. What happened at Cynosoura?”
“Where?”
“Cynosoura. Look it up. I want a detailed account on my desk in half an hour.”
Carausius gave him his business nod, meaning that it would, of course, be done. “Where are you going now?” he said. “Only there’s a reception …”
“I know, in the knot garden,” he replied, remembering. “Forty minutes.”
“It starts in a quarter of an hour.”
“Then I’ll be late. Cynosoura,” he repeated, and walked away.
To the stables. Nobody about at this time of day. He walked in, shut the door firmly and looked around for something substantial to bash on. Just the thing: there was a solid oak mounting-block. He remembered it from childhood; he’d got in trouble when he was eight for hacking chunks out of it with a billhook he’d liberated from the groom’s shed. Offhand he couldn’t remember why he’d done that, but no doubt he’d had his reasons.
In the corner was a good, sturdy manger. He lifted the block onto it
and tested it with his hand to make sure it wouldn’t wobble about or fall down. Then he drew the hanger, took a step forward and slashed at the block as hard as he could. The blade bit in a good inch and vibrated like a hooked fish thrashing on the end of a line. The point where the knuckle-bow met the pommel pinched his little finger. He had to lift the block down again and put his foot on it before he could get the blade out, but when he held it up to the light it was still perfectly straight, and the cutting edge wasn’t chipped or curled. Not bad, at that.
He put the block back on the manger, breathed in, and smacked the flat of the blade viciously against the thick oak six times, three smacks on each side. That was the proper way to proof a sword-blade, preferably someone else’s. There was now a red blood-blister on the side of his little finger, but the hanger had survived more or less intact; blade still straight, hilt still in one piece, no cracks in the brazed joints, no rattle of loosened parts when he shook it. That was really quite impressive, for cheap local work. Once more for luck; he stepped back and took another almighty heave at the block — no fencing, just the desire to damage something, the block or the sword, not bothered which. The cut went in properly on the slant, gouging out a fat chip of wood from the edge. As the shock ran up his arm and tweaked his tendons, it occurred to him to imagine that the cut had been against bone rather than wood, and he winced. Of course it was a hunting sword, not a weapon of war; even so.
Got myself a bargain there, then, he told himself; also, all the good luck in the world. Genuine Mezentine. Doesn’t anybody but me remember we’re at war with the fucking Mezentines?
The report was there on his desk when he got back to the tower room, needless to say. Nothing much had happened at Cynosoura, which turned out to be a very small village in the northern mountains. A routine cavalry patrol consisting of a platoon of the Seventeenth Regiment had stumbled across a Cure Hardy raiding party. Recognizing that they were outnumbered and in no fit state to engage, they’d withdrawn and raised the alarm, whereupon Duke Valens and two squadrons of the Nineteenth had ridden out (I remember now), engaged and defeated the enemy and captured their leader, one Skeddanlothi, who provided the Duke with valuable intelligence about the Cure Hardy before dying under interrogation. As for the encounter at Cynosoura, there was only one casualty, a cavalry trooper shot in the back at extreme range as the patrol was withdrawing; he died later, of gangrene.